


last night’s clothes and tomorrow’s dreams

by the_sky_is_forever



Category: Into the Woods (2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Festivals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Into The Woods AU that no one wanted, but I’m giving you anyway!<br/>-<br/>The Prince has returned, after being away for years, and a festival is being held in his honour, in order for him to find a spouse to rule the country with.<br/>There is nothing - nothing - that Grantaire wants more than to be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	last night’s clothes and tomorrow’s dreams

As he stares out his window, there is simply only one thing on Grantaire’s mind. It’s not all the chores he has yet to do; it’s not his best friends chattering away behind him as they sit at the sewing machines, nor is it whether or not he’s going to get dinner tonight.

It’s the Prince’s Ball.

The flyers for it started to go up nearly three months ago. Ever since, the newspapers have been full of articles about it, and the whole city has been talking about it.

The Prince, returning from a journey oversees to study, is to find someone to marry, after which he is to remain here and become King with a beautiful companion by his side.

Grantaire has never wanted anything more than the chance to go to the ball. It’s said to be a three day festival, and anyone of nobility is invited.

He sighs, looking down on the street. Behind him, Floréal stops sewing and Éponine groans loudly. “Grantaire,” Éponine says darkly, “tell me you’re not thinking about that damned festival again.”

Grantaire glances over at them and shrugs. Leaning against a wall, Joly rolls his eyes, and Floréal makes a disapproving sound. “Grantaire, you’ll never be allowed to go.”

 “I know,” Grantaire mutters, pushing himself away from the window and going to sit down beside Éponine. “I just…” He trails off, staring down at the wooden table that is covered in scratches.

Bossuet comes across and sits down with him, putting his hand on top of Grantaire’s. “You just want to see him again.”

Grantaire nods, sullenly.

The first and last time he'd ever seen the Prince, it was only a fleeting moment, but it was all it had taken. He'd never managed to get the Prince out of his mind, and he hadn’t wanted to – the Prince gave him hope, and that was reason enough to not want him gone.

_“Grantaire!” his master, Montparnasse, screeched after him, as Grantaire pulled away and sprinted into the crowd. The town square was heaving, and Grantaire had to fight his way through to get to the front. Only fifteen at the time, he was still small enough to weave in and out of the people gathering there for the chance to see the young Prince himself._

_Stories were told of his phenomenal beauty, and more of his charming smile and fast wit._

_Grantaire only wanted one glimpse, one tiny glance at the Prince._

_He pushed through to the front, coming out where the barriers were, in perfect place to have the perfect view – totally unhindered._

_That was when he saw the Prince for the first time, standing atop the slabs in the centre of the square that were usually used for the fish market. Grantaire would have had to stifle a laugh at how undignified that was if he hadn’t been totally captivated by the boy’s fierce presence._

_The Prince cast his gaze over the crowds, not seeming to think himself above them, despite his positioning, and not seeming harsh or cruel – not that that was something Grantaire could really tell at first glance, but a small, kind smile held its place as he looked over the people, softening his stately appearance._

_Staring up at the Prince, Grantaire was hypnotised, helpless to do anything but stand there._

_The Prince made an attempt to bring all the attention to himself – either not realising or not wanting to assume that it’s already being there – by raising one arm regally. He was the people’s favourite, and always had been. They loved him for the way he would speak out in their favour, despite his young age. They loved him for the way he seemed to care._

_Grantaire knew that the Prince had often visited the town to talk to the people, but Montparnasse had never allowed him to go down to see; this was the first time Grantaire had ever seen him, and the first time he heard him talk._

_The Prince was telling the crowds that he was leaving, going abroad to study._

_Quiet murmurs spread through the townspeople, mutterings of displeasure at the news._

_The Prince continued, unfazed, by letting them know that he would be returning when he was needed to become King. He told them that he wished he could stay, earning him plenty of smiles and soft_ awws _from the elder members of the crowd and sighs of pleasure from the dainty teenage girls, but he had to leave._

 _When the Prince was finally swept away, followed as always by a handful of guards, however unnecessary they were – the little Prince was much too loved to be harmed here – Grantaire felt the unnerving_ need _to follow him._

_So, he did._

_Grantaire was skilled at being unseen, unnoticed, and he scuttled across the square, mixing in with the steadily-dispersing crowd and continuing to avoid his master, or anyone who might send him on home._

_He turned a corner only to find himself faced with a sword. He flinched back, before realising that the Prince stood a little way behind the guard wielding the sword. “My Prince,” Grantaire gasped, dipping into a respectful bow._

_The Prince smiled courteously at him and tilted his head to the side. When Grantaire stood upright, but didn't look directly at the Prince, he asked, “Why are you following me?”_

_Grantaire considered the question, finally answering, “The people are saddened to hear you are leaving,” then adding, “My Prince,” as though it were an afterthought._

_The Prince seemed to take him into consideration, asking slowly, “And are you?”_

_“Am I what?” Grantaire asked, confused._

_“Saddened by my departure,” the Prince clarified._

_Again, Grantaire thought about the question and his answer, “My Prince, I’m saddened that you must leave a place you love,” he said at last, speaking carefully so as not to cause offence, “but I do not know you, so I cannot be saddened that you go.”_

_The Prince seemed to find his answer delightful, and his face split into a wide grin. He waved one hand at the guard in front of him, who lowered his weapon and stepped back, still staying close enough that, should Grantaire try anything, he could be between him and the Prince in a heartbeat. “What do they call you?” the Prince asked._

_“Mostly, ‘Boy’,” was Grantaire’s answer, followed by the truth, “but my friends call me Grantaire.”_

_The Prince nodded. “I have to go,” he said, “but it was a pleasure meeting you, Grantaire.”_

_Grantaire bowed to him, again, and replied, “And it was a privilege to meet you, my Prince.”_

_The Prince bestowed a charming smile upon him, and as he left he told Grantaire, “My name is Enjolras.”_

_“I know,” Grantaire answered with a small smile, adding after, “My Prince.”_

_And with another quick smile, Grantaire turned and dashed back to the square, where he would receive a cruel reprimand for wandering off._

_The Prince left the country the very next day with quite the parade._

_Grantaire wasn’t allowed to attend, but that was alright – the Prince had spoken his name._

“I want to go to the festival,” Grantaire sighs, now. “More than anything – more than life.”

His friends look at him with pity, continuing with their work. Instead of pressing the matter, Grantaire gets up and wanders back to the window, as though he will see the Prince coming down the road.

Two days more, and the Prince will be back. Two days more, and Grantaire will have his chance to see him once more.

-

He jerks awake as Floréal shakes him, one hand held firmly over his mouth to muffle any sound he might make. He glares at her in the dim light, and she removes her hand. “What?” he hisses.

She shakes her head, miming for him to keep his lips closed, and motions for him to follow her.

They move silently through the building, coming out into the workroom. She looks at him. “You wish to go to the festival?”

Grantaire frowns in confusion, but nods. “Oh, more than I could wish for jewels or for riches, Floréal.”

She smiles at him, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. “Then you shall go to the festival.”

She drags him across the room, yanking open a cupboard, as beside her Grantaire asks, “But how will I get to the festival? I’m not nobility, Floréal, nor do I look the part.”

She turns to him with a devilish grin, pulling from the cupboard a charming suit, made of a dark green fabric, and clearly of Floréal’s own design. 

Grantaire gasps, taking the fabric in his hands and running his fingers across it. “Oh, Floréal, you _didn’t_.”

“You’re going to the festival, Grantaire,” she tells him firmly, and Grantaire doesn’t doubt her for a second.

-

By the time the festival is due to begin, they have a plan.

The suit fits him well, and Éponine shows him how to wear it in the way it is designed – pristinely and perfectly.

Bossuet does his hair – ironic, because Bossuet himself doesn’t have hair, not since he randomly decided to shave it all off almost five years ago – but he does it well, styling Grantaire’s dark curls so they fall wonderfully, framing his face and giving him a sense of mysteriousness.

They don’t doubt for a second that Montparnasse will not notice Grantaire’s absence, busy with work as he is, so they don’t bother to come up with an alibi for him. He gives them all tight hugs as he leaves, out the back way so he’s not seen, and whispers his thanks.

Then he’s off to the castle, feeling more and more nervous with every step.

He almost turns back innumerable times, but he doesn’t. With every step, he’s closer to the castle; with every step, he’s closer to the Prince.

Under no delusions, Grantaire doesn’t expect the Prince to notice him, or to remember him. All Grantaire desires is to see the Prince once more.

Oh, he’s not fooling anyone! He wants to dance with the Prince, he wants to talk with the Prince, and he wants the Prince to remember him, however much he knows that the Prince won’t. Why on Earth would the Prince remember young Grantaire? Even so, Grantaire can’t help but hope that he will.

When he arrives, he panics for a moment that they will suspect him and turn him away, but the years, though long, have treated him well in his looks, and at almost eighteen, Grantaire is quite the young gentleman – especially dressed the way he is tonight.

They let him pass through with small polite nods.

He enters the grand hall, stone floors beneath his feet and towering roofs above his head.

He clutches a drink from a tray in one hand, the delicate glass making him feel impossibly strong, and he mixes into the crowd, weaving in and out just as before, but keeping his head lifted. This time he is not trying to make himself unseen; there’s no one here who could possibly recognise him, save for the Prince, and he will be kept busy by the true gentry. Besides, it’s been years since their minute-long conversation.

He finds a place to stand, watching as the people mill about, distinctly aware that the royal family hasn't made their appearance yet.

Music is playing, provided by a live band of performers, with their harps and violins and all manner of instruments that Grantaire couldn’t name if he tried.

He sips at the bubbly drink, and finds it dry but somehow pleasant to drink.

A voice beside him says, “Well, hello.”

Grantaire turns and lifts his eyes upwards to look at the person stood beside him, watching him with a small smile. Grantaire manages a smile in return and says, “Hello,” too.

The man is dressed in a blue suit and has dark skin and hair, matched with his dark yet friendly eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?” the man says. “I think I would have noticed you at other formal gatherings.”

Grantaire blushes and goes along with the excuse. “No, I’m not.”

The man, thankfully, doesn’t ask where he’s come from, and instead offers his hand, saying, “I’m Combeferre.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, startled, and dips into a half-bow. “My Lord, I didn’t realise.”

Combeferre, the half-brother of the Prince, merely laughs delicately, and says, “That’s alright.”

Grantaire accepts his hand, shaking it also, and claims his name to be Sebastien. Combeferre seems to be an easy-going soul, pleasant to talk to, and kind company. He compliments Grantaire on both his appearance and his conversation.

When Grantaire asks why he isn’t with the royal party, who still have yet to arrive, Combeferre shrugs and replies that as half-brother to the Prince and a bastard child of the Queen, he’s free to do more or less as he pleases as long as he looks respectable while he does so.

Grantaire laughs at that, though he knows that it wasn’t really a joke, and Combeferre grins in response.

When Combeferre asks him to dance, Grantaire can’t think of a single reason to say no.

It’s as Combeferre spins him around the dance floor that trumpets sound, and then Combeferre drops his hands from Grantaire as a loud voice announces, “Ladies, Gentlemen, esteemed guests, we proudly present King Jean, Queen Fantine, and their heir, Prince Enjolras.”

Combeferre stifles a laugh beside Grantaire, who is craning his neck to have a look, and Grantaire throws him a glance. “What is it?”

Combeferre smirks. “Cosette didn’t get an introduction; both she and Enj are going to be pissed.”

A second after he speaks, the announcer says, sounding world-weary and long -suffering, “And their younger daughter, Cosette.”

Even Grantaire can’t help but laugh then, Combeferre grinning too.

Combeferre chooses to ignore his family, turning back to Grantaire and saying, “Would you like to dance some more?”

Grantaire regards Combeferre – kind, handsome, humorous Combeferre – and nods eagerly. “Yes, I would.”

The night passes quickly, and at some point, Combeferre excuses himself to go search for his half-siblings though he admits to Grantaire that Enjolras probably won’t have a moment for him. He sounds disappointed at that, and Grantaire feels sorry for the almost-Prince who is shunned because of his parentage.

It was quite the scandal when it all came out – the Queen’s affair. The man fled the country, and the Queen returned to her King’s side, though there never seemed to be a call for divorce, or even any sort of punishment. King Jean simply continued to love her and even raised the child as his own. Combeferre would never be permitted to rule, however, despite being Enjolras’ elder, leaving him with the title of Lord, instead of Prince.

Grantaire glances up at the clock as Combeferre leaves him, notices that it’s getting on towards twelve, and thinks that it’s time to make his leave also.

He heads for the door, a little disappointed that he hasn’t even caught sight of the Prince once, but feeling reassured that he can return the next night, and the night after that.

Merely steps from freedom Grantaire is stopped, and his head jerks upwards, finding himself face-to-face with the Prince.

Grantaire stumbles backwards a few paces and dips into a low bow. “My Prince,” he says lowly, terrified to look directly at the man he came here to see.

He has to come up from the bow at some point though, so he does, keeping his eyes trained downwards.

The Prince sounds amused when he says, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been keeping my brother busy all evening.”

Grantaire blushes and nods weakly. “For some reason, he found my company pleasing,” he tells the Prince meekly.

He risks a glance up at the Prince, and finds him smirking, looking at Grantaire with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “And did you find him sufficient company?”

“I did,” Grantaire admits. “More than sufficient, actually.” Then he dips his head again. “I shouldn’t keep you – in fact, I believe Lord Combeferre was looking for you.”

The Prince glances around the room, eyes searching the crowds for his half-brother, saying distractedly, “Then maybe I should find him.” He turns his eyes back on Grantaire. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Of course, my Prince,” Grantaire answers, hopefully truthful.

The Prince smiles. “Good, I’m sure my brother will be pleased to hear that.”

Grantaire bows again and turns to take his leave, but the Prince stops him once more. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says, sounding genuinely interested.

“Sebastien,” Grantaire replies.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” the Prince says, echoing himself from all those years ago, and Grantaire can’t resist.

“And a privilege to meet you." He smiles.

Something close to recognition flickers in the Prince’s eyes, but it disappears almost as quickly, and Grantaire thinks that perhaps he imagined it. “Give my goodbye to Lord Combeferre, if you would,” Grantaire says, “and enjoy your ball, my Prince.”

He turns away immediately after that, fleeing the grand hall and making his way through the antechamber, down the stone steps, and onto the road that will take him home.

His friends are waiting up for him in their shared room when he gets home close to quarter past midnight. He’s smiling uncontrollably as he undoes his tie and carefully hangs his clothes. They have to talk quietly, but they still talk, begging Grantaire for _details_ , and all Grantaire can do is grin hazily as he talks about dancing all night with Lord Combeferre, and those few but blessed words with the Prince.

 “Are you going back tomorrow?” Joly demands, and Grantaire nods in reply as he settles into his bed.

He lays back into his pillow and looks across at them all. “Of course I’m going back; I have to see him again.”

Éponine frowns at him. “The Prince? Or Combeferre?”

Grantaire’s not sure he knows the answer to that really, but mumbles, “The Prince, of course,” before turning over and falling asleep immediately.

-

The next day arrives with a soreness in Grantaire’s limbs that’s hard to ignore from dancing, and eager anticipation for the night’s excitement. He stretches as he clambers out of the bed, groaning and wincing.

Floréal sticks her head in the door at that moment, making Grantaire realise that all of his friends are already up. “We’re covering for you, but you should help some before you disappear off to the ball again,” she informs him, with a kind smile.

He nods at her, rubbing at his eyes sleepily and pulling on a fresh shirt. When he gets through to the room, the girls are sitting at their sewing machines, working away, and Joly and Bossuet are sifting through piles of paper, trying to find the right order. Grantaire heads for the store cupboard, continuing what was supposed to be yesterday’s chore of sorting and tidying.

Montparnasse appears partway through the day to check that they’re all doing their jobs, and then informs them that he’s taking a trip to the nearby town for a few days or so, and they should continue with their work as usual.

Grantaire’s heart soars; getting out of the building won’t be an issue with no one to hear him.

When the master leaves, all five of them grin round at each other – whenever he goes away, the work becomes far more enjoyable. They can talk freely, sometimes even singing, as they work, and they work extra hard to take prolonged breaks. Sometimes they even take short trips into town.

Today they finish up early, helping Grantaire get ready again. Floréal gives him a kiss on the cheek for luck, and Joly gives him a quick hug, careful not to rumple his clothes. Grantaire glances down at himself. “It won’t be weird to wear last night’s clothes?” he checks with them.

All four of them wave off his concerns, informing him that most people will be wearing the same gowns and suits every night – something, as an assistant tailor, he already knows really.

Grantaire leaves just before eight, arriving at the castle at half past, and wandering into the grand hall as though he belongs there.

It’s still light when he arrives, and this time he’s there as the sun starts to go down, filling the room with red light through the west window. As it goes dark, lights flicker on around the room. The lighting is different tonight, casting a different view on the room.

Combeferre appears by his side not long into the evening, as Grantaire is talking to a young woman with dark hair and a beautiful smile. Her gown is made of fine red silk, and it complements her wonderfully. (Working as a tailor gives one an appreciation of fine clothing.)

“Good evening, Musichetta, Sebastien,” Combeferre greets them politely. Then he addresses solely Grantaire. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight – Enjolras said you would be, but I wasn’t sure.”

Grantaire tries in futility to fight the blush that creeps over his cheeks at the Prince’s name, and he smiles. “I did promise, and here I am. Did you miss my company terribly?”

Combeferre laughs, and looks at him with shining eyes as he says, “No more than would be respectable. Besides, it was our darling Prince that kept talking about you, not me.”

Grantaire flushes again and glances down at the floor. “He can’t know very many interesting people if he thinks I’m conversation-worthy.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything further on the subject, instead saying, “Shall we dance?”

Grantaire agrees hastily, and they don’t stop dancing until the royal entourage makes its grand entrance – Cosette getting an introduction with the others this time.

As they continue to dance, Grantaire spots the Prince spinning Musichetta, the woman from earlier, around the room, smiling happily as they talk. He feels a twist of jealousy, and something must show on his face, because Combeferre sighs, “Enjolras can be a little enchanting,” sounding incredibly disappointed.

They stop dancing, and Combeferre lets his hands drop to his side. Grantaire feels guilt settle in his stomach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” Grantaire starts, but Combeferre waves him off.

“I can tell that I won’t win you over already. Friends?” Combeferre offers, and Grantaire nods weakly.

“I’m sorry, I know that the Prince won’t even consider me, but I can’t-” He breaks off again with a sigh, and Combeferre takes his hand, leading him to the edge of the room.

Combeferre grabs two drinks from a waiter and passes one to Grantaire, taking him over to a window seat. They sit silently side by side, watching the Prince and Musichetta twirl around gracefully. After a while, the Prince bows to Musichetta, and she curtsies, wandering off to find a drink while the Prince cuts in with Cosette, taking her for a spin around the room.

Grantaire sighs. Combeferre gives him a sympathetic smile.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Combeferre says, and he asked the same question only yesterday, but this time it’s different.

Grantaire shakes his head, quietly admitting, “No.” Combeferre waits for him to continue, so he does. “I live down in town, I’m- I’m an assistant tailor.” Combeferre nods, and Grantaire adds, “And my name’s Grantaire.”

That catches Combeferre’s attention, and he chokes on his drink. “ _Grantaire_?”

Grantaire frowns. “Yes?”

Combeferre’s face lights up in a grin. “When did you first meet Enjolras? And don’t say yesterday.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Almost three years ago, the day before he left the country.”

If Combeferre could possibly look more ecstatic, he would. “Oh, my God, _oh, my God_ ,” he says.

“What?” Grantaire asks, frowning, slightly distracted by the way the Prince is now dancing with a curly-haired man, grinning as they sweep around the room.

“ _You’re Grantaire_ ,” Combeferre says, then dismissively adding, “And don’t worry about that, that’s Courfeyrac, there’s probably more chance of Enjolras and I dating than _that_ happening.”

Grantaire nods idly, but then asks, “What do you mean ‘I’m Grantaire’?”

Combeferre turns to face him properly. “You don’t understand, he talked about you non-stop before he left, and he wrote me about three times asking if I’d found you. _In the first two weeks alone_.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to go white and almost choke, “W- _what?_ ”

Combeferre looks victorious, despite the fact that only moments ago he was sad over Grantaire’s affections for the Prince. “You have to tell him,” he declares, and Grantaire shakes his head profusely.

“He’s probably forgotten all about me,” he protests weakly.

“You didn’t,” Combeferre points out. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To see him again.”

“Yes but he’s the Prince; of course I’d never forget him. I’m just- I was just a little fifteen year old, wearing _rags_ for Christ’s sake.”

“But you made an _impression_ ,” Combeferre says dramatically. He glances across the room, to where the Prince is bowing to Courfeyrac and grins. “Look, he’s about to skulk off to some corner of the palace – follow him, Grantaire, I promise you he won’t send you away.”

Not taking no for an answer, Combeferre pushes Grantaire across the hall and out into the corridor that the Prince had just gone through.

Grantaire gets into the hallway just soon enough to see the Prince disappear up a set of stairs, and he follows, knowing that Combeferre will drag him up there if he doesn’t go willingly.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, he’s surprised to see it leads out onto a rooftop terrace. He spots the Prince leaning against the side, looking out over the land. Music echoes up the stone staircase, and Grantaire silently creeps forwards.

Standing a way behind the Prince, he softly says, “Not enjoying your party?”

The Prince spins around in shock, not having realised anyone had followed him. He recovers quickly, though, and he replies, “No, I am, it’s what comes after the party I’m not enjoying.”

Grantaire frowns. “You mean the coronation?”

The Prince nods and turns back to looking out over the town. Some people wander out of the castle and down onto the streets, their laughter echoing up to the two of them. Grantaire moves to stand next to him, trying to maintain a respectful distance between them.

“Don’t you want to be King?” Grantaire asks, hesitantly.

The Prince drops his head down slightly, staring at his clasped hands that lean on the wall. “I disagree with the notion,” is his reply.

“How’d you mean?” Grantaire questions, now interested.

The Prince doesn’t need a moment to think, immediately answering, “The people have no choice in who dictates their lives, and that’s wrong. They didn’t choose me; they just have to accept me.” He bites his lip and then says, “I find nothing wrong with leading; I’m good at it and I like it, I just wish that the people could _choose_ me as their leader, instead of having it forced upon them.”

Grantaire stares at the young Prince before him and his heart softens. “Oh, my Prince,” he sighs, and the Prince looks at him sharply, but Grantaire pays no heed, continuing, “You don’t know this, because I can assume that you’ve rarely been to the town, but the people love you there. If they could, they would choose you.”

The Prince stares at him. “How would you know that?” He’s frowning, and Grantaire can see his mind churning, trying to figure it out.

Grantaire can’t see a way to fix his mistake, so instead he shrugs. “Just because I come from nobility doesn’t mean I can’t know the people. I spend a large amount of my time in that town.” He nods down at the sprawling town below them and prays that the lie is convincing enough.

It seems to be, because the Prince nods slowly and goes back to his melancholic staring. Grantaire looks at him with incredible fondness – a fondness that has only increased after this conversation. “You really care about your subjects, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, what kind of ruler would I be if I didn’t?”

Grantaire smiles down at the ground, and then says, “Come on, my Prince, your party awaits, and I’m sure people have started to notice your absence.”

When they get down to the grand hall, the Prince turns to him and says, almost anxiously, “Dance with me?”

Grantaire agrees without a second’s hesitation, and as soon as he’s being held by the Prince, he knows he couldn’t ask for anything more for the rest of his life.

They don’t talk as they dance, but the Prince’s eyes never move from Grantaire’s face, staring into his eyes and ignoring the world as they spin around the dance floor. The Prince is, naturally, a better dancer than Grantaire, but Grantaire’s not bad either, having grown up dancing with Floréal and Éponine, and sometimes Joly and Bossuet, on days where Montparnasse was out, or late at night.

When Grantaire finally pleads his leave, the Prince bows to him and says, “Good night, Sebastien.” Grantaire almost flinches at the false name, but then the Prince says, “I hope to see you tomorrow?”

“You will,” Grantaire promises, “My Prince.”

A small smile flitters across the Prince’s face, and he says, “You can call me Enjolras, you know.”

Grantaire feels a small fracture in his heart, and says softly, “I’d rather not, my Prince,” and then he flees.

On his way out, Combeferre grabs his arm, asking quietly, "Did you tell him?"

Grantaire shakes his head sadly, not looking at Combeferre's face, and then he slips past the man, heading down the steps.

The walk home is long, and all he can think of is the Prince’s arms around him, and the familiarity of being near him that he simply mustn’t get used to.

When he finally gets back to his home, he crawls into bed, and he must look so tired because none of them question him. When he starts to quietly cry into his pillow, however, Joly, Bossuet, Éponine and Floréal all creep out of their beds and pile into Grantaire’s – despite it being way too small – and they spend the night curled up together.

Just before he drifts off to sleep, Éponine murmurs, “It’s going to be alright, R.”

He answers, “But I love him,” and no more is said.

-

Floréal is literally on top of him, Bossuet he thinks is on the floor, Éponine is curled up at the foot of the bed, and Joly is pressed between the wall and his side. All in all, he’s feeling pretty looked after when he wakes up.

Even so, he’s starting to lose feeling in his left arm, and Floréal’s getting heavy lying on top of him. Grantaire pushes at her, jiggling her around till she wakes up, peering down at him with sleepy eyes.

“Oh, sorry, R,” she mumbles, rolling off him and landing on Joly, who wakes up with a squeal. She gets out another apology, but Grantaire’s fairly sure she falls asleep almost immediately after.

Joly sits up, and Floréal makes a noise of protest, almost falling down the gap between the wall and the bed, and a moment later, a soft snore is heard from her. Grantaire shakes his head in disbelief.

He climbs out of bed, stepping over Bossuet on the floor and heads straight for the wardrobe where he’s been keeping his beautiful suit. Rubbing the fabric between his fingers he sighs, “It’s the last night.”

Behind him, Éponine mumbles something that he doesn’t catch, but was probably sympathetic and most likely a thinly veiled insult, but still comforting in its own ‘best friend’ sort of way.

The day passes way too slowly for Grantaire’s liking, and he constantly messes up his work as his hands shake, or he gets distracted by the memory of the Prince’s hand in his own, and one hand on his waist.

As they take a lunch break, raiding Montparnasse’s kitchen, he tells them about the previous night, starting with, “He asked me to dance with him.”

They all sit up straighter at that, leaning in towards Grantaire with grins and excited eyes.

“What was it like?” Joly asks.

“Is he a good dancer?” Éponine wonders.

“Did he gaze into your eyes as he waltzed you round the room?” Bossuet sighs happily.

Grantaire gives Bossuet an odd look, but then shrugs and says, “Sort of, yeah,” and his friends all squeal in delight.

“Are you going to dance with him tonight?” Floréal demands, her tone implying that if he doesn’t she’ll do something drastic.

Grantaire shrugs, picking at his food. “It’s not really up to me, is it?” His friends all sit back, disappointed, so he offers, “He said that he hoped to see me again?”

That’s all it takes to get their spirits up again, and as they help him get ready, hours later, they chatter excitedly, grinning uncontrollably and soothing Grantaire’s frazzled nerves.

Éponine, however, pulls him aside before he leaves and says lowly, “Be careful, R.”

He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and tells her that he always is. She laughs at that, rolling her eyes, and leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek.

He leaves for the castle with a light heart, despite the fact that he’s sure this is the last time he’ll get to see the Prince.

Climbing the stairs, he walks near a small group of women, and he can’t help but overhear their conversation. “Tonight’s my last chance,” a woman nearby Grantaire says, nudging her friend. “He’s going to have to pick a Queen before he takes the throne.”

Her friend laughs brightly. “Have you even danced with him yet? Talked with him?”

The first lady replies, “No, but there’s still time, and have you seen what I’m wearing? I look _darling_.”

Grantaire wanders away from them after that, head spinning – he’d forgotten all about the Prince’s intentions to find a bride. He shouldn’t have, really – that had been advertised every bit as much as the festival itself, and now Grantaire feels a twisting in his gut at imagining the Prince taking the throne, crown adorning his head, with a beautiful woman in a stunning gown smiling on his arm. 

The moment he steps into the hall, he’s being dragged across the room by none other than Lord Combeferre and another man with curly hair that Grantaire’s sure he recognises. He shouts out in surprise as their hands grip his arms tightly, pulling him across the grand hall and out into another room.

He shakes them off, stopping and smoothing down his precious suit. “Hey!” he shouts indignantly. “This took my friend a lot of effort to make!”

Combeferre has the good grace to look a little ashamed, but the other simply grins and offers a hand. “I’m Courfeyrac,” he tells Grantaire.

Grantaire glances between Combeferre and Courfeyrac and finally answers, taking Courfeyrac’s hand in a firm handshake, “I’m Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac’s face lights up, a wide grin that under any other circumstance, Grantaire has no doubt, would be contagious. As it is, Grantaire doesn’t smile; he just stands there, watching the two Lords grin at him.

Eventually, after what feels like days but was only seconds, he has to say something. “What’s happening right now?”

Courfeyrac leans in conspiratorially. “We’re calling it Operation: Seduce Enjolras.”

Combeferre groans, “We are not calling it that.”

“Operation: Secure Enj A Decent Husband?”

“No.”

“Operation: Reintroduce Enj To The Love Of His Life?”

“No!”

“Operation-”

“Oh, my God,” Grantaire interrupts, “Please stop.”

Courfeyrac pouts at him, and Grantaire sighs heavily. “Look, the Prince is looking for a wife from nobility who can, A: be of use as a Queen, and B: actually be respected. Need I remind you that I am both male and from the town?”

Combeferre starts to look smug at that. “Enjolras isn’t looking for a Queen.”

Grantaire stops short. “What?” he asks, looking between the two of them.

Courfeyrac grins. “Enjolras isn’t looking for a _Queen,_ ” he repeats.

The meaning of his words hits Grantaire and all he can manage is a quiet, “Oh.” He pulls himself together quickly, and shakes his head, saying, “That doesn’t mean that he would choose _me_.”

Combeferre frowns at him. “Why not? He likes you, he never shuts up about you – hasn’t for about three years – and we approve of you.”

“I’m an assistant tailor!” Grantaire exclaims. “I’m just a poor kid with no parents who snuck into a castle to see a beautiful Prince, what on Earth about me would make the Prince like me?”

Courfeyrac makes a soft noise of sympathy, and Combeferre looks like he wants to hug Grantaire tightly. Not wanting the chance for that to happen, for fear he’d fall apart, Grantaire gives them both a short bow. “If I may be excused, I’d like to enjoy my last night of freedom.”

His two acquaintances look disheartened, but they permit him to go, frowning all the while.

Grantaire slips back into the grand hall, eyes scanning the room and realising that the Prince has made his entrance at some point while he was talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He stands at the side of the room, watching the Prince talk to person after person -- simpering women with delicate features, fluttering their eyelashes hopefully, and dashing men with charming smiles who stand proudly.

Every time the Prince returns a smile, accepts a handshake, Grantaire wilts a little inside.

The thought of the Prince marrying any of these people is simply detestable to Grantaire, but he knows he has no say, nor any right. He has to accept that his place is not beside the Prince.

 Fairly quickly, he finds Musichetta and asks her for a dance, to which she agrees wholeheartedly.

As they dance, they talk, and her quick wit and odd but familiar sense of humour makes Grantaire think that she would get on wonderfully with Joly and Bossuet. For a moment, he’s distracted from all thoughts of the Prince, and he truly is enjoying his last night in the castle.

Twirling around the hall with Musichetta, it’s easy to let his mind think of nothing but the music, Musichetta’s smile, and the easy-going conversation.

As the song comes to an end, however, someone taps him on the shoulder, and he glances round, expecting some handsome Lord, or Duke, of some sort, wanting a turn with Musichetta, but instead he’s looking up into the alarmingly-familiar blue eyes of the Prince.

The Prince smiles at Musichetta prettily, and says, “Do you mind if I dance with Sebastien a while?”

The woman smiles brightly. “Of course not,” she says, and as she leaves she throws a wink at Grantaire, who blushes heavily.

The Prince takes his hand, pulling him closer, and Grantaire almost stumbles, his mind working overtime. Making a humming noise under his breath in thought – and possibly happiness? – the Prince spins Grantaire round once, and then says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Grantaire nearly trips over again, and forces himself to smile, looking back at the beautiful Prince. “So am I,” he says at last.

The smile he gets in response is blinding and beautiful.

The first song comes to an end, while they haven’t said anything, and Grantaire hesitates, expecting the Prince to excuse himself. When he doesn’t, Grantaire frowns in confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with other people, tonight?”

The Prince frowns, too, seemingly just as confused. “What for?”

Grantaire blushes, and he’s pretty sure it’s right down to his toes. “Well, uh, aren’t you looking for a bride?” When the Prince stiffens under his touch, Grantaire then bumbles on, “Or- or a groom, or, whatever- I- I mean-.”

Laughing now, the Prince smiles at him, shaking his head slowly. “Well, technically yes, but the longer I remain unmarried, the longer I stay off the throne.”

Grantaire sighs, “I told you, you’ll make a good King – the people want you.” He then smiles. “And if you really hate it, use your power to dismantle the monarchy.” He’s half joking, but it draws a laugh out of the Prince.

“That’s not such a bad idea,” he replies, with a grin, eyes suddenly brighter at the thought.

“You don’t want to get married, though?” Grantaire asks, as a couple in contrasting black and white dresses swirl past.

“I do,” the Prince admits, “But not so much to someone I don’t know, purely for the sake of the throne.”

Grantaire nods, being able to understand that, at least.

“I haven't seen you with my brother tonight,” the Prince says, clearly looking for a different topic. “You kept him company the last two nights, save for when you were with me. Did he do something to displease you?”

“No,” Grantaire reassures him with a smile, “Lord Combeferre and I simply decided it wouldn't work between us and friendship was the better option.”

The change in the Prince’s expression is obvious, the way his face lights up in a smile, and Grantaire silently begs himself to not get his hopes up. “Why, might I ask?”

“Because my affections lie with another,” he answers, truthfully.

Grantaire can feel the Prince stiffen beneath his touch but pretends he can't.

“Oh?” The Prince asks, clearly fighting to keep his voice neutral. “You have a… partner?”

“No,” Grantaire admits. “This is more of an unrequited situation.” He gives a smile at the end of his sentence to alleviate his words.

The Prince nods. “That must be difficult.”

They’re doing little more than swaying side to side at this point and Grantaire looks up at the Prince. “Actually, it’s not so bad. I couldn’t ask for more than what I’ve been given.”

Something in his choice of words makes the Prince’s expression flicker, and they end up just standing still in the middle of the dance floor. “They don’t want you?” The Prince asks.

Grantaire lets go of the Prince, letting his hands fall by his side, but the Prince moves his hands to Grantaire’s waist, not letting him go. Grantaire looks down at his feet, saying quietly, “Even if they did, I wouldn’t be a good choice.”

The Prince takes a small step closer, one hand moving to lift Grantaire’s chin up. “I find that hard to believe,” he says softly.

Grantaire closes his eyes, breathing out steadily, fighting the urge to lean in and kiss the man in front of him, and he manages to speak. “Please, don’t,” he says. His voice definitely shakes.

The Prince runs his thumb across Grantaire’s cheek and Grantaire freezes, unable to move. “Please look at me?” the Prince whispers.

Trembling, Grantaire opens his eyes, looking straight into the Prince’s blue eyes.

“I could dance with almost anyone at this ball,” the Prince says quietly, a breath away from Grantaire, “and I’d rather spend every single second with you.”

Grantaire’s fairly sure he couldn’t speak if he wanted to, and his knees feel like they’re about to give out beneath him.

The Prince leans closer, their noses brushing together. Grantaire stares into the Prince’s eyes in disbelief, and the Prince smiles down at him, eyes warm. “My Prince,” Grantaire murmurs, unable to say anything more.

“Yes?” the Prince asks, voice hushed, and his eyes trail down Grantaire’s face to his lips.

Grantaire lets out a quiet whimper. “Please.” He can feel the Prince’s breath on his skin. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t let me get my hopes up.”

The Prince’s eyes are filled with an incredible sadness as Grantaire steps away from him, turning on his heel and pulling away from his touch. Grantaire pushes away through the crowd of people that he hadn’t realised were watching them, his sight blurry with tears that he’s unable to stop.

“Wait!” he hears the Prince call out to him, but in the most disrespectful way, he carries on. Reaching the entrance hall, he’s all but running, wiping away tears that fall freely down his face. An empty feeling fills his gut, and he wants this more than anything, wants to turn back, wants to allow the Prince to kiss him… but he can’t.

He won’t.

“Sebastien! Wait!”

If anything, the use of his false name only solidifies that leaving is the best choice – for the Prince, of course. The lie runs too deep, and he let it go too far.

He makes it to the town at a run, dipping into a side alley quickly. When he turns back, looking up at the castle, hidden in the dark, he sees the Prince standing on the stone steps.

Grantaire collapses to the floor, his suit dirtying and his heart breaking. “I’m so sorry, my Prince,” he whispers.

He pulls himself to his feet, and as everybody’s sleeping he wanders through the town alone.

Finally, he makes his way back to his home and falls into Éponine’s waiting arms, sobbing into her shoulder and letting her lead him up to bed. His friends curl up around him once more. Late into the night, while they’re all still awake, Floréal sings softly, an old lullaby that she used to sing when he had first arrived, only a frightened child.

A few years his senior, she’d taken care of him, all but lead him to be the person he is today, and her soft voice makes him feel like a child again, comforted by his mother’s presence.

_There is a castle on a cloud…_

-

He shouldn’t be surprised, really, but he is.

He woke early, unable to sleep any longer, and silently slipped out of bed without waking the others. Pulling a blanket around his shoulders, he headed to the work room, sitting by the window and watching the other early risers go about their day.

The others still weren’t awake when there was a knock at the door.

Grantaire headed to open it, all the while wondering who it was, and when he got there… Well, he really shouldn’t be surprised.

 “Grantaire.” Lord Combeferre smiles brightly, but there is something off about it, and beside him, Lord Courfeyrac looks at him with slight concern.

Grantaire sighs, distinctly aware of his rugged attire. “Would you like to come in?”

“That would be lovely, yes,” Combeferre agrees.

He leads them through to the kitchen, letting them sit down in the dirty chairs, heading across to the fire to light it. As he works at the fire, Combeferre coughs, clearing his throat, before saying, “Let’s not dally around this: we saw what happened last night.”

“You and the rest of the world,” Grantaire mumbles.

“Hmm, yes,” Combeferre says, nodding thoughtfully. “But what the rest of the world didn’t see was Enjolras after you ran out on him.”

Grantaire keeps his back turned to them, standing up and setting about placing a kettle above the fire to heat. “Oh?” he inquires, keeping his voice neutral.

Courfeyrac tuts. “They didn’t see him, because he locked himself in his room, _sulking_ ,” he informs Grantaire.

Grantaire bristles. “Oh, the Prince was sulking, shame the rich kid didn’t get what he wanted.” He doesn’t mean a word of it, and the two Lords know it.

“Oh, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac sighs.

At last, Grantaire turns to face them. He leans up against a counter and forces himself to keep a straight face. “What would you have me do? You honestly expect me to believe the Prince would want me? Like this?”

The two look him up and down quite blatantly, and then they both nod at the same time. “Yes!”

Courfeyrac sighs heavily, getting up from his seat. “Grantaire, you have met Enjolras, correct?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “You have spoken with him? You have _talked_ to the man? Do you honestly, even after that, think that Enjolras cares about appearances?”

The Lord has a point that not even Grantaire can deny, but even so... “It’s not-” he breaths out heavily, “I know that the Prince is not as superficial as most, but even he would take displeasure at being lied to. He does not know me, therefore cannot choose me.”

Their voices have become progressively more raised in the duration of the conversation, catching the attention of Grantaire’s friends.

Joly stands in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes. “R? Who are you yelling at?” His eyes drift across the room, catching on the finely dressed, and recognisable, gentleman. “Oh!” he exclaims, suddenly not so exhausted. “Lord Combeferre,” he says respectfully, dipping into a bow. He flusters, brushing his hair out of his face and playing at his clothes a little.

Combeferre smiles, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Why does no one ever know me?” he asks, sounding exasperated.

Combeferre grins. “Because I’m a scandal, and you’re just an annoyance.”

Joly fumbles for words. “I’m sorry, Lord…?”

“Courfeyrac,” he finishes, crossing the room with fast steps, offering a hand. Joly shakes it, looking incredibly bewildered as to what’s happening. Courfeyrac looks down at him with a delighted smile, and he throws a glance back at Combeferre. “Look how cute he is! Get him in a suit and, God, he’d look amazing!”

Joly goes a brighter red than Grantaire has ever seen on the boy – surpassing even the shade he’d gone when Bossuet had finally plucked up the courage to kiss him.

The blush only makes Courfeyrac grin more, and Grantaire groans, “Lord Courfeyrac, please stop embarrassing him.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “My apologies,” he says to Joly, with a twinkle in his eye. 

 “May I ask what my Lords are doing here?” Joly asks, then adding in a rush, “Not that it’s not a privilege to have you here, of course.”

Combeferre speaks up then, saying tiredly, “We’re trying to convince Grantaire to go back to Enjolras.”

Joly turns to Grantaire at that. “Oh, yes, that’s what I came down to ask about – what happened last night? Are you okay?” He looks and sounds very concerned.

Grantaire looks down at the floor and says quietly, “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

Joly looks from Grantaire to the two Lords in understanding, and nods. “Got it. Do you want me to keep the others upstairs?”

Grantaire nods in turn. “Thank you, Joly.”

After Joly disappears up the stairs, Grantaire sinks into one of the chairs tiredly. Silence fills the kitchen for a little while, but eventually Grantaire speaks up. “The problem is, we live in totally separate worlds. I got a little bit of your world, for a short amount of time, but the fact of the matter is: I was always going to have to come back here.”

The kettle whistling makes him get back up, going across and pouring them all tea, not caring if they really want it. They accept it, of course, sipping at the hot liquid while Grantaire sullenly sits back down, staring into his own cup.

Neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac can seem to think up a response to what he said, and Grantaire takes that to mean he’s right. Courfeyrac’s looking at him with a pity that’s almost tangible, and Grantaire tries to ignore him.

“I think you should leave,” Grantaire says at last, and sadly, they agree, getting to their feet.

Just before they leave, Combeferre turns back, gripping Grantaire’s arm with intensity. “What if Enjolras came to you?”

Grantaire pulls away, shaking his head, “No, I don’t want him to see that. This. Let him keep his idealistic view of me.” His eyes plead with them, begging them to let him at least have that, when he can’t have the Prince.

Combeferre nods. “We won’t tell him where you are,” he promises, and gives Grantaire a weak smile before he goes. Courfeyrac calls his goodbye, with a cheerful smile that is the opposite of how Grantaire’s feeling right now.

His friends are by his side within seconds of their departure, hugging him tightly, but Floréal fiercely says, “You are such an idiot, Grantaire.” He gives her a hurt look, and she scoffs, “So, the Prince’s closest friends pay you a visit personally and you still think he’s better off without you?”

“He _is_!” Grantaire protests, looking to the others to back him up.

They don’t, however, instead siding with Floréal (not stopping hugging him). He sighs and extracts himself from their hold, saying that they should get back to work.

Work is, to say the least, tedious. (To say the most, he’d probably choose soul-crushingly horrific).

They’re not sure when Montparnasse is getting back from his business trip, but it doesn’t really matter – they cope just fine without him, and even with the eventful few days they’ve gotten plenty done.

When night falls, Grantaire slips out of the house, and wanders in the direction of the castle. He looks up at it from a distance, longing to go there. He can still feel the Prince’s hold on him, knows exactly what it was to be standing less than a centimetre apart, skin brushing.

The loneliness without the Prince is incomparable.

For the first time, he allows himself to entertain the idea of living in the castle, the Prince- no, the King by his side. He imagines sleeping beside the King, being allowed to hold him in his arms, to be held in the King’s arms. The thought itself makes Grantaire’s heart skip a dozen beats, and his breath shortens.

Shivering in the cold, he leans against a stone wall, eyes not moving from the castle.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

He turns away from the castle, despite every bone in his body pleading with him to do the opposite, and he goes back to his warm bed.

The Prince’s words on that last night echo in his mind for hours after he’s gotten home, and lying in bed he can think of nothing but his voice.

_I could dance with almost anyone at this ball,_

_And I’d rather spend every single second with you._

-

The days pass slowly. Montparnasse finally shows his face again, greeting them by wandering into their workspace at midday, ruffling Grantaire’s hair and giving Éponine a small kiss on the cheek, and everything seems to go back to normal.

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

Grantaire forces himself to concentrate on work, spending all his free time tidying, cleaning, and keeping himself busy. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never show up again, and neither does the Prince. Grantaire doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t want to, or because Combeferre and Courfeyrac kept their promise. (He hopes it’s the latter, despite everything.)

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

A nobleman wanders into their shop one day, and Grantaire instantly recognises him from the festival, and silently prays that the man doesn’t recognise him. He doesn’t, barely even sparing two glances for the boy in scruffy clothes. Maybe a small part of Grantaire had wanted to be recognised; then, maybe, he’d be sure that it wasn’t a dream.

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

Was it real? Had the Prince tried to kiss him? Spent most of the last night dancing with him? Been so distraught that his two best friends sought out Grantaire?

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

Grantaire’s not sure what the truth is anymore, and it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.

(It’s not. He loves him.)

-

Grantaire wakes in the middle of the night, for the fourth night in a row, drenched in a cold sweat.

It probably says something that the nightmares are always about the Prince: the Prince being forced into a marriage he doesn’t want, one purely based on political advantage, or of appearance; the Prince living out his life, ruling as King, and hating every minute.

Once, the nightmare is simply that Grantaire dies before he gets the chance to see the Prince again.

He shivers in the dark, fighting the image of the Prince smiling blandly, forcedly, out at the crowds, as a woman with dark curls and red lipstick like blood grins, waving one hand delicately.

In the end, he climbs out of the bed, changing his clothes into something dry, and heads downstairs.

Partway down the wooden stairs, he freezes. Someone moved downstairs.

The logical leap would be that it’s Montparnasse, coming back from a bar late, or simply making a midnight snack of some sort. Grantaire assumes the worst, as is his habit, and his heart pounds erratically at the thought of his friends asleep upstairs.

He continues to creep down the stairs, pausing in the shadows by the doorway to the kitchen, where the noise came from.

He hears someone hissing, “Will you shut up?” in the dark, and someone else replying, sounding extremely irritated, “No, because this was your stupid idea, and I’m willing to fuck it up entirely for you.”

The first voice sighs heavily, and it’s oddly familiar, “I love you too, Chetta.”

A female voice giggles.

Grantaire steps out of the shadows. “Courfeyrac?” he asks, squinting through the darkness.

He can just make out two figures as they freeze. A second later, a candle lights the room, revealing Courfeyrac and Musichetta standing there, the latter holding said candle.

“Hi, Grantaire,” Musichetta says, smiling at him. She truly does have a lovely smile. “Long time no see.”

He nods slowly, eyes adjusting to the light. “What are you doing here?”

Courfeyrac grins at him unabashedly. “We’re taking you to Enjolras.”

Grantaire sighs, “No, I said no. It’s over, Courfeyrac. I’m done.”

Courfeyrac pouts and Musichetta looks sad for a moment, before her eyes flicker to the stairs. Then she grins, and darts past him, rushing up the wooden stairs, not taking a single care for being quiet. Grantaire runs after her, hissing, “Be quiet, my master will wake up!”

She continues on, Grantaire following, and Courfeyrac bringing up the rear, and she makes it to his bedroom. Pushing the door open, she wakes up the inhabitants, one of whom screams. Grantaire winces, praying to God that Montparnasse drank himself black-out drunk tonight.

“Oh, my God, please, don’t hurt us,” Grantaire hears Floréal whimper just before he makes it into the room.

A second later, as Grantaire comes through the door, Joly says, “Don’t come any closer,” while Bossuet adds, “Motherfucker,” in dramatic whisper of sorts, doing some sort of hand movement to match.

Everything freezes as Joly turns to look at Bossuet. “What,” he asks, flatly.

Musichetta starts giggling hysterically.

Grantaire groans, “Guys, go back to sleep, I’m working on getting rid of them.”

Éponine and Floréal are sitting on the bed, clutching each other, but they don’t seem afraid at all.

Courfeyrac strolls in leisurely. “We’re just going to borrow Grantaire for the day. You can have him back at some point.”

Grantaire spins on him. “You’re not _borrowing_ me, and I’m not going to see the Prince! We’ve been over this, I’m not going to do that to him.”

Musichetta sighs, in a way that’s almost musical, and asks, “What does that even mean?”

“It means that I’m not good enough for the Prince,” Grantaire explains, thinking that it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

She shrugs. “He tried to kiss you; he’s never done that with anyone before, not even me, and have you seen me?”

Both Joly and Bossuet look appreciatively up and down her at that, and she gives them a wink. They blush furiously.

Éponine gets to her feet. “He tried to kiss you?”

Grantaire stares down at the floor.

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Did you want him to?” Bossuet asks.

“Yes,” Grantaire says again.

“Then why didn’t you?” Musichetta demands loudly, “Why did you run, Grantaire?”

_I’d rather spend every single second with you._

“Because I’m not good enough,” he explodes. “Because he deserves someone better, someone who doesn’t lie to him, someone who doesn’t trick him into thinking that they’re someone they’re not just so they can dance with him, someone who’s got potential to deserve him.”

They all look at him sadly, so he says, “I’m not!” forcefully. “I don’t deserve him.” He sighs, “He’s so… He’s got all these thoughts about how the world should be, and you should see his face when he thinks about how he could change things, and, I’m not that. I’m not.”

“Would you stand by his side, though?” Courfeyrac asks, quietly, into the silence that follows Grantaire’s words.

Grantaire looks down at the ground. “Until the end,” he answers.

Courfeyrac takes a step towards him, looking at him intently. “Grantaire, please… Come see Enjolras with me.”

A tear slips down Grantaire’s cheek as he shakes his head. “I can’t, I can’t. I can’t be what he wants me to be.”

“He doesn’t want you to be anyone other than who you are,” Courfeyrac promises him. “He didn’t fall in love with the way you looked in that suit, Grantaire, he fell in love with the words you said to him, and your smile, and how you danced with him.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire says quietly. “Please, don’t do this to me. I just want to live a quiet life, and I want him to be happy. He’s going to do amazing things, and he can’t do that with me.”

Courfeyrac puts a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Let him decide that, and then I’ll let you go.”

Grantaire’s heart is beating so loudly, he wonders how he can hear anything else, and behind him he knows his friends are staring at him.

He can’t decide.

He doesn’t have to.

Montparnasse steps into the room at that point, his face a mask. Grantaire ducks his head.

“Grantaire,” Montparnasse begins seriously, “I’m not sure what it is you’ve been up to while I was away, but it sounds to me like Lord Courfeyrac here knows what he’s talking about.”

Courfeyrac’s face lights up, and he crows, “Someone knows me!”

Musichetta shushes him as Grantaire peeks at Montparnasse, whispering, “He’s too good for me, Parnasse.”

Montparnasse smiles at him. “You know that’s not true. Go talk to him, Grantaire. What harm can it do?”

“What harm indeed,” Grantaire murmurs under his breath, but then he turns to Courfeyrac and Musichetta, full of resolve. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Courfeyrac grins, while Musichetta cheers, pulling Joly and Bossuet in for an overjoyed hug. (When she pulls away, they’re blushing again.)

“You won’t regret this,” Courfeyrac tells him. Grantaire prays he’s right.

_Sebastien! Wait!_

He hopes the Prince will forgive him for lying.

-

The walk up to the castle is the longest of Grantaire’s life. Courfeyrac keeps one hand on him the entire time, preventing him from turning back (which he attempts at least five times).

He keeps up a running commentary on why exactly this is a bad idea, but he’s fairly sure Courfeyrac and Musichetta learn to tune him out after the first ten minutes.

When they’re less than one hundred yards from the steps, Grantaire pulls to a stop again. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, voice shaking. In front of the castle, it now feels daunting, and the prospect of talking to the Prince is nerve-wracking.

Courfeyrac merely raises an eyebrow, pushing him forward.

As they go up the stairs, Musichetta turns to Grantaire unexpectedly, saying, “What are the names of the cute ones?”

Grantaire frowns. “What?”

“Your friends: the bald one and the little one?”

“Bossuet and Joly?” he asks.

She grins. “That’ll be them.” She seems deep in thought for a few steps before adding, “Hmm, they really were cute.”

Her babble about his friends does a little to settle his nerves, and he goes up the steps obediently. The sun is just starting to rise, and Grantaire fiddles with the hem of his shirt a little.

They stop in the entrance hall, and Grantaire looks to them. “H-How do I look?” he asks nervously.

“Terrified,” Musichetta informs him, most unhelpfully. He gives her a scathing look, but goes back to being scared almost immediately.

Courfeyrac pats him on the back before disappearing through a doorway, leaving Grantaire and Musichetta alone in the large room.

“What if you’re wrong?” Grantaire asks, quietly.

Musichetta suddenly pulls him into a hug. “We’re not,” she promises, her mouth by his ear.

He shivers. “You could be,” is all he can manage to say.

She releases him, giving him a warm smile. Not long after, Courfeyrac returns with Combeferre at his side.

Combeferre embraces Grantaire enthusiastically with a wide grin. “I’m so glad you came.”

Shrugging weakly, Grantaire glances down at the floor before determinedly meeting Combeferre’s eyes. “So, when are we doing this?” His voice sounds a lot stronger than he feels.

Now that he’s here, all he wants is to get it over with. If he’s really doing this, he wants to do this now.

Combeferre nods, approvingly. “Right now. Come on, let’s go see Enjolras.”

The words strike a little fear into Grantaire, and his stomach does at least three flips with nerves as he follows Combeferre down the stone hallway. Their footsteps echo in the empty hall, and Grantaire feels a little ill. He has no desire to turn back, however; he’s come this far and he’ll see it through.

Combeferre stops outside a large wooden door, and he looks at Grantaire. “Ready?” he asks.

Grantaire shakes his head, lips pressed together. Then he forces himself to breathe out. “Give me a second,” he pleads, and Combeferre doesn’t say anything. They stand there beside the door, the only thing separating Grantaire and the Prince. “What if-” Grantaire starts, but Combeferre interrupts.

“You can stand around and ask ‘what if’ all day or you can go in there and find out.” He says seriously. “It’s your choice, and I’d never force your hand. You can go back home right now, and Enjolras will never be any the wiser, but I promise you this: if you go back now, you will never see him again, only from a distance, perhaps on his wedding day, with a complete stranger by his side.”

Grantaire winces, visibly, and he can’t let that happen. He nods, and Combeferre smiles. “Good,” he says, “Let’s do this.”

He knocks on the door, and when only silence answers them, Combeferre calls out, “Enj? It’s me, Ferre.”

There’s a long pause, but they hear movement inside the room. Combeferre, at the last second, as the latch flicks on the other side of the door, shoves Grantaire out of view. The Prince peeks through the door, and Grantaire’s heart pounds, back against the wall, where the Prince can’t see him.

Combeferre looks the Prince up and down. “Are you decent?”

The Prince frowns. “Why? It’s barely eight.”

Combeferre shrugs, “There’s someone here to see you.”

Something in his tone must make the Prince take this seriously, and he mutters, “Give me a second,” and then the door swings shut again.

“What the hell?” Grantaire hisses.

Combeferre pulls him back over, and stands by him in front of the door, not giving Grantaire an answer. Grantaire occupies himself with worrying at the hem of his shirt again, staring down. “I’m scared,” Grantaire whispers. Combeferre doesn’t reply. The seconds tick by at an unbearably slow pace.

When the door swings open unexpectedly, Grantaire almost jumps out of his skin.

“Alright, Ferre, what’s going-” The Prince breaks off, eyes widening as he stares at Grantaire, who is standing there, terrified. And then the Prince throws his arms around Grantaire, yanking him in and hugging him as tightly as he can. For a moment, Grantaire wonders if he might break, but then he wraps his arms around the Prince and buries his face into his neck.

“I thought I was never going to see you again,” the Prince says, voice strained with emotion, and filled with relief.

Grantaire tightens his hold as he replies, “I wouldn’t get too happy just yet.”

The Prince freezes and pulls away, still holding Grantaire by the shoulders. He looks at him warily, but still smiling somehow. “What do you mean?”

Neither of them takes much note of Combeferre backing away down the hallway as the Prince pulls Grantaire into his room. He seems to have forgotten in under a second what Grantaire had just said, babbling away. “I’m so sorry for trying to kiss you, I thought you would be okay with it, I thought you felt the same, and I’m really sorry, please forgive me, wait, why are you here? I didn’t know where you’d gone and if I had I would have followed you, I promise.”

Grantaire laughs, feeling comforted by how the Prince is just as overwhelmed as he, and the Prince stops talking at the sound, smiling happily. He pulls Grantaire into another hug, and Grantaire hugs back, smiling into the Prince’s shirt.

When Grantaire pulls away, he looks at the Prince seriously. “I need to tell you something. Courfeyrac and Combeferre found me, they told me that I should– Well. I just want you to let me talk, and I know this is incredibly disrespectful but please, don’t interrupt me.”

The Prince pulls a face at the ‘disrespectful’ part, and says, “Tell me. I’ll listen.”

He drags Grantaire over to a set of chairs, sitting down in one and gesturing at the other. Grantaire declines, pacing back and forth a little in his anxiety. He stops suddenly, turning to face the Prince. Taking a deep breath, he says in a rush, “Okay, first off, my name’s not Sebastien.”

The Prince frowns, but doesn’t say anything, as promised, though he clearly desperately wants to.

The next part's harder and Grantaire struggles to stay looking at the Prince as he says, “My name’s Grantaire.”

He can tell the Prince recognises his name from the way his eyes shoot open wide, and his mouth opens to say something, before he clamps his own hand over it.

“You remember me?” Grantaire asks, quietly. The Prince nods, dropping his hand. His eyes are full of an emotion that Grantaire can’t name. “And I sure remember you, my Prince,” Grantaire says, a wry smile on his face.

He takes the seat opposite the Prince, whose eyes never leave him, not even for a second. “Okay,” he says, heavily, “The first thing that I want you to know is that I never actually meant to lie to you. I just wanted to come to the festival.” He blushes as he continues, “To see you, one more time.

“See, the thing is, the first time I met you, you sure left an impression on young impressionable me, and when I heard you were coming back, I just had to see you. The only way I could do that, however, was to disguise myself. I’m really sorry, but well, I’m an assistant tailor, so my friend who I work with made the suit, and helped me get ready, and then here I was.”

He breaks off, unsure where to look. The Prince gives him an encouraging smile, still maintaining his promise of silence. Grantaire half-smiles at that.

“But then Combeferre noticed me, which made you notice me, and before I knew it everything had gotten away from me, and I was so caught up in the lie that I couldn’t do anything to stop myself from falling head over heels in love with you.”

The Prince goes a startlingly bright red colour at the last few words, but he also looks so overwhelmingly happy that Grantaire thinks he’s close to crying.

Grantaire blunders on, not directly addressing any further what he'd just said, “Combeferre knew who I was; I told him on the second night when he noticed I was visibly pining over you, and then he told Courfeyrac, who, I assume, told Musichetta, and everything snowballed from there and here we are. I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want to hurt you, but I think I did anyway, and I’m so sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry.”

Silence fills the space between them as Grantaire comes to a screeching halt, and the Prince hesitantly leans forwards in his seat. “Permission to speak?”

Grantaire blushes at the Prince asking for his permission to do anything, but he nods anyway. He’s half-scared out of his mind, dreading what the Prince might say.

But then, everything’s okay.

The Prince grins. “Hi,” he says, and it startles a laugh out of Grantaire. “I’m Enjolras, and I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you.”

Grantaire stares at him in disbelief, but a smile is working its way onto his face of its own accord.

Enjolras gets to his feet, taking Grantaire’s hand and pulling him up too. “Hi, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras’ face lights up. “I like it when you say my name,” he admits. Grantaire blushes at that, glancing down at his feet. Enjolras lifts his chin with one gentle finger, bringing their faces close. “Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

Grantaire lets out a truly pathetic sound, and quietly says, “Because I’ll drag you down, because I don’t deserve you, and because you’re stunningly gorgeous, and I’m… me.”

That last one he hadn’t even realised he thought until he said it aloud.

Enjolras shakes his head slowly, a quiet laugh bubbling up from him in shock. “Grantaire,” he says, “you are lovelier than anyone I’ve ever seen, but even if you weren’t, I’d want you anyway.”

Grantaire tries to duck his head again, but Enjolras keeps his hold. “You’re kind, you’re well-spoken, you dance beautifully, you care, and _yes_ you are beautiful.”

Grantaire beams, he simply can’t help it, and he whispers, “Enjolras, I love you.”

Grinning widely, Enjolras looks divine, and Grantaire can barely believe he’s standing there so close to this man, but when Enjolras then says, “And I love you, Grantaire. Always have; always will,” everything makes sense.

“Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asks, his breath tickling Grantaire’s cheek.

Grantaire nods, enthusiastically, and answers, “Every day, for the rest of our lives, for as long as you’ll have me, you can kiss me.”

Enjolras leans in and, just before he closes the gap, whispers, “I don’t like that kind of blanket permission, but okay,” and then he kisses him.

Grantaire’s arms wrap tightly around his Prince as he kisses him, thrilling at the touch, at the way they match.

They end up standing in the middle of Enjolras’ room, foreheads pressed together, simply grinning at each other.

“Marry me?”

“Grantaire, _I’m_ supposed to ask that.”

-

Five days later, Grantaire beams uncontrollably at Enjolras as they stand opposite each other, pretending to listen to the priest ramble on about the beauty of love. They don’t need to hear it, they know how it goes, and it’s nothing compared to how they feel.

The coronation follows immediately, as planned, and Grantaire feels his heart swell with pride as the crown is placed on Enjolras’ head. Grantaire gets a crown too, even if his is smaller and less intricate.

He spots Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet, standing side by side in the crowd that watches on, smiling happily. He sees Floréal and Éponine with tears running down their beautiful faces. He notices Montparnasse standing beside them all, and his old master nods once at him, in respect, as their eyes meet. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are there too, and both Enjolras and Grantaire nod to them, silently giving them their thanks for all their work in making sure Enjolras and Grantaire ended up side by side.

Enjolras turns to Grantaire with a grin that would make the angels themselves weep with envy of his beauty. He leans in and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s lips, and a cheer goes up around the room as the people clap enthusiastically.

When he pulls back, Grantaire slips his hand into Enjolras’. He keeps them close, eyes shining mischievously as he says quietly, “Well, my King, let’s take down the monarchy.”

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i'm not sure what era this is set in - just dont question me. basically i went to see into the woods and just couldnt resist the idea.  
> a massive thank you to stupidromanticus on tumblr for editing this for me! they are a star and made this fic so much better!
> 
> I have a writing blog: theskyis-forever come say hi and leave a prompt :)  
> Also, if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)


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